


Leaving nothing to overhear

by JoCarthage



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bathtubs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Protectiveness, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel take a bath together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving nothing to overhear

**Author's Note:**

> The title's from Lisel Mueller's "The Romantics," not because I think Dean and Cas shouldn't have tons of sex (see: my oeuvre), but because I like its critique of assuming all romantic relationships are sexual. I think there's times in sexual relationships where romance and physical affection without sex are more important than what she calls "two bodies meshing together."
> 
> So, no sex but lots of affection and ambiguous intimacy here. Because the boys are so bad at using their words, the way they communicate might squick someone because it might feel dub-con, thus the "ambiguous intimacy." See bottom note for more background.
> 
> Also, come say hi on tumblr! I'm generally at jocarthage.tumblr.com

After Sam self-sexiled to a room on the opposite corner of the motel complex, yanking his extra notebooks out of Dean's bag, Dean and Cas were left, covered in demon squid ink, staring at each other. Cas was fiddling with his coat, running his thumb up and down the back of the lapel. He closed his eyes at each button-anchor, clicking his nail against the loose threads.

His other hand was tapping, patting himself as if he was looking for cigarettes. He glanced down at his jacket and began digging at a patch particularly stiff with demon goo. Dean watched, mesmerized, as the chunky flakes drifted down onto the troublingly-colored carpet before he snapped himself out of it and stepped into Castiel's space to grab his elbow. Saying nothing to the angel's startled glance, he maneuvered him into the bathroom. Still not making any form of eye-contact, Dean leaned into the plastic-tub-shower and jerked the hot water on to full, putting it into a shower stream. 

He held half a hand under the spray until it was hot, then yanked it back and fiddled with the cold knob until it was a medium temperature. Eyes down, he walked back over to Castiel and grabbed the angel's lapel, trying to drag the coat off of him without touching his body. Dean could feel Cas's eyes boring into him, but he didn't want to deal with Cas not knowing he needed to clean up. He gave a harumph when Castiel didn't move to help get the coat off, and laid his palms on the angel's chest, under the edges to lift it off his shoulders. He stopped only when two hands like cold, smooth vice-grips pressed around his wrists.

"Dean." Castiel's expression hadn't changed and he was owl-facing hard and long, but Dean just didn't have it in him to explain. He stepped back, letting the angel keep his hands, and glanced meaningfully at the pouring shower. 

"You wish me to shower?" 

Dean ducked his head, still cautiously mute. Castiel looked about to ask another follow-up question, but then the angel's shoulders settle back and he releases Dean's wrists and steps back toward him, closing the distance Dean had added. He tucked his fingers under the broad lapel over his breastbone and shrugged his coat off, catching its collar as it slid behind him. He turned, so close his hip brushed Dean's as he turned to hang the coat on the back of the door.

"Do you want me entirely unclothed, or will my undergarments do?"

Dean gave a start, then shook his head lightly. 

"Wear what you feel comfortable in, Cas; I'm not going to give you orders."

Castiel nodded and began working his tie off his neck, popping half his collar as he did so. Dean's hands clenched at the need to straighten it or pull it down or held unbutton his shirt and press in, faces close--

But he just folded his pinky against his palm and squeezed until the joint cracked, focusing on the discomfort. Cas's hands were flying expertly down his chest, but every few buttons his elbows bumped into Dean's chest. Neither of the men backed up. Castiel shrugged the rest of the shirt off, tossing it onto the deep sink counter, black and sparkly like a strip club from the 1980s. When he moved his thumbs under his pants-tops, Dean gasped and backed up, shins bumping into the cold porcelain-ish toilet. Castiel looked at him, but Dean dove his eyes down, and focusing on unbuttoning his own shirt and sliding two layers off his chest at once. He flipped the seat down, catching it before it rang in the hard-tiled hotel bathroom. He was hooking his thumbs behind his jeans' button when he glanced up, to catch site of an uninterrupted angel flank. _I guess Cas went for full-nudity. Alright._ He yanked his eyes back down again, and focused on getting his pants off without falling over.

When his clothes were in a slightly orderly heap and the air was thick with steam, he turned to the angel, who was staring at his shoulder. Dean gestured the angel into the shower and then, once he was under the spray, stepped in, keeping a careful foot of distance between their naked skins. Dean turned around, realizing he left his shampoo bottle in his bag, then glanced over at the strictly-above-the-waist view of his friend. He gestured at his head, then gently nudged him with his knuckles more fully under the spray. When he stepped out--still completely dry except for his ankles--the angel was standing ladder-straight under the harsh water, face and hair dry and taking the full blast of the shower head in the center of his chest, which was swiftly reddening. Dean stepped carefully on the dewing tile and opened the bathroom door, taking the blast of dry, forced-air-hot air as a refreshing change from the tropical bathroom.

He strode over to his bag, picturing the color, shape, and location of the bottle of shampoo before he ripped back the zipper and dug a hand in.

Manfully-unscented generic-brand shampoo-bodywash-facewash in hand, Dean squared his shoulders and walked back into the bathroom. Through the steam and the slightly-opaque curtain, he couldn't see Castiel. Dean looked around the bathroom frantically, trying to see if he'd stashed the angel behind the toilet or under the sink. No dice. He was about to call out when he saw a smudge of dark low at the end of a pale curve, near the edge of the tub and the covering of the curtain. He stomped forward and swung the curtain back, to find the angel hunched in on himself in a delicate ball, water pouring off his head and sluicing down his face. He didn't look up at Dean when he pulled back the curtain, not when the other man stepped into the tub. He kept his cheek pressed to his drawn-up knees and his eyes slowly blinking the water out of them.

Dean crouched down, setting the bottle on the narrow ledge behind him, space too small to avoid his knee brushing the other man.

"Hey, Cas, man, you ok?"

Nothing. Dean looked at him at the pattern of red the hot watering was bringing out in the other man's skin. Carefully reaching around him, keeping as out-of-contact as possible, he popped the pipe switch, turning the shower into a bath. He leaned a little farther in, entire side of his chest coming into contact with Castiel's outer arm, and flipped the silver switch down, closing the drain. Dean took stock of the limited sitting space and made a decision.

He stretched his left leg out, keeping the other pulled up, providing him some cover. Moving his hands into full view of the angel, he settled his finger-tips on the man's shoulders and pulled him gently away from his own knees. Castiel's shoulders were woody and knotted. As Dean pressed his palms into the angel's shoulders, a shudder ran through him and he relaxed back, tipping and scooting as Dean settled him back first against his drawn-up knee and, then, when the angel kept writhing, trying to find a comfortable position against the bony appendage, against his chest. Dean moved his hand down to his friend's side, tucking him back tightly until their skins were flush against each other.

The angel's head was still bowed, his face still blank, his eyes now closed. Dean rubbed a hand up and down his friend's arm experimentally, then pulled away at the lack of reaction. Dean used the movement to lean forward to adjust the temperature of the ankle-height water a little higher--even motels' hot water tanks emptied eventually. Trailing a hand in the water as he leaned back up, he swerved it to avoid the angel's shin and hip. Dean cast around, unsure where to go next. As he leaned back to think, the multi-use bottle tipped against his shoulder. He reached blindly behind himself, grasping the bottle and slipping it cap open as he brought it around.

He poured a healthy portion into his palm and then, inspiration having struck, he spatted the whole mess onto Castiel's head. The angel started at the sudden touch and texture, and raised his head to glance behind, the glance somewhere in the middle between a glare and a question. Dean ignored both, not meeting the angel's eyes, instead bringing both his palms up to the angel's hair.

He began by running his palm over the angel's head, slicking the white gel to his hairline on all four sides. Then he pressed his finger-tips into the densest portions of the shampoo and began rubbing it in. He slide the pads of his fingers up and down and around in slowly-widening ovals, not digging, just circling until the hair parted and he felt the scratch of barely-not-roots standing up against scalp. Once down at the roots, Dean moved in light spirals, rubbing at the scalp and brushing the hair back and away from the angel's face. When he reached his bangs, Dean ran his fingertips from the angel's temple to his brow, and then brushed up and back, pulling the slightly tangled bangs behind the angel's crown. He brushed the bangs back over and over again until they were in some semblance of order and lay flat.

He tipped the angel's head back until it rested on his shoulder. This made it harder to get to the hair at the edge where his neck and skull met, but Dean compromised and used his thumbs to distribute the gel to the angel's roots on his neck. He shifted his shoulders back, giving himself enough space and leverage to press a little deeper, moving the tight muscles of the angel's neck until they loosened and gave. He moved his four fingertips back and forth from over the angel's hair above his ears, moving the last little bit of shampoo in that oft-neglected area.

The water was above Dean's waist now, so he stretched his foot out and twisted the water off. Then, pressing a cautionary hand to the angel's forehead, he lifted a palmful of water up and tipped it over his head. Only the smallest amount of soap left the angel's hair, but Dean did it again, and again, and again. By the time the water around their hips was getting filmy and cloudy, the angel's hair was clean, his chest pink from too long in the hot water. The angel had kept his head tipped back for the entire experience, only moving to settle more firmly into the curves and hollows of Dean's body. 

Dean ducked his head down to bring his lips to the level of the angel's ear:

"Buddy, you ready to get out?"

The angel tipped his head into Dean's, pressing his damp and cooling temple to Dean's still dry hair. Head lolling, movement more a manipulation of gravity than an application of muscles, he nodded. Dean set him upright, slightly slanted into the wall of the shower-tub, and pulled his leg in to stand. He rose up, water leaving hints of bubbles on his smooth skin and smudges of soap residue. He twisted to reach the in-shower towel-rack, pulling a scratchy white scrap down. The angel was still sitting, weaving slightly. Dean bent at the waist and laid a hand on his neck. Castiel nodded, more firmly this time, and shifted his weight forward, standing in a surprisingly smooth motion for a body who'd been closer to liquid for the better part of 20 minutes.

Dean passed him the towel, which the angel wrapped ineffectually over his shoulders. Dean stepped out of the tub, sliding his damp feet over the floor-towel, decreasing the likelihood of trip-and-death. He rushed his towel over his mostly dry neck and then around his waist and up-and-down his legs. Castiel stood still, staring into the middle distance and hands rolling the towel corners over his wrists over and over again. Dean reached under the counter for another spare towel and gestured the angel to step out of the still-undrained bath. Dean leaned down to flip the plug switch and before he rose up again began running his towel over the angel's legs and waist. He left his privates still untouched and wet, figuring some things were best left to self-dry.

Convinced the angel wouldn't die of cold or spend a miserable night in damp sheets, Dean clamped a hand on the angel's elbow and guided him out of the room. Seeing two queen beds, Dean made another decision. He pulled Castiel to the most defensible side of the most defensible bed--farthest from the door, nearest the window--folded back the sheets and sat the angel down on the thin, white sheet. He gestured him over and then flipped off the middle-wall-mounted-lamp. He circled around the bed, brushing it with his leg to tell the dimensions and avoid smacking into the wall, before pulling back the covers on the other side. He slid his legs in and rolled himself over onto his side, back to the door. His eyes settled in clicks and starts, bringing different pieces of the room into focus in the new dark. He saw the angel was on his back, staring at the ceiling and unmoving beneath the half-covering covers. Dean reached over the angel, tugging the bedding up straight over his chest. 

He slipped his fingers under the angel's shoulder and tried to turn him towards their shared middle. The angel wouldn't budge, and so Dean tried the other shoulder. Castiel moved easily to the other side, baring his back to Dean. Taking a breath and hoping this intrusion wouldn't be the one to set his friend off, Dean scooted those last dozen inches over, pressing first his shoulders to the angel's, then the tops of his thighs to the back of Cas's, then his stomach to the other man's back, the finally their hips together. Last, he placed his hand over the angel's belly, spanning the thumb at his belly-button to his pinky at the top of his pubic hair.

At this last motion, he froze, expecting a rebuke. But he received none, and Castiel settled his shoulders back into Dean's, hand and arm paralleling his and clutching the outside of his palm. Dean eased his down-side hand in front of him, pressed his head into the pillow to confirm the gun was still there, and then focused on breathing in tandem with the angel. Somewhere between detailing the shape of the angel's ribs under his forearm and counting the beats between the end of one of his breath's and the beginning of the next one, Dean's mind eased off its wakening track and--joining Castiel--sank into the ocean of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece of my NaNoWriMo fic which I felt stood alone, ish. The set-up is pretty simple: S7, Castiel has taken on Sam's hurt and is creeping his way back to wholeness in-spite of it. He's well enough to be traveling with Sam and Dean, but still not all the way there. Dean and Cas have both figured out they want and like each other as more than friends, but they're on the same page that they can't move forward examining that until Castiel is closer to healed. But like it says on the box, they're bad at using their words, and trying to move around each other without hurting each other and without talking about what they need.
> 
> I'm totally serious about my love for Lisel Mueller. Just; yummmmmmmy.


End file.
